


lucid prayers

by andreil



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Healing, M/M, Nathan Wesninski is alive, POV Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreil/pseuds/andreil
Summary: Neil makes it out of Baltimore alive. Unfortunately, so does his father.





	lucid prayers

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time i've really written fully from andrew's pov so i'm a little nervous about it ngjdskgnds. also, i'm currently working on one of my on-going tfc fics, and another tfc one shot, but this idea came to me and demanded attention first.
> 
> cw: there are some depictions of violence in this fic.

The crowd takes too long to disperse.

The bus is filled with chaos, hurt and bruising teammates. Wymack yells something, but he can’t quite hear it. There is an itch, insistent and crawling up the back of his spine. Kevin looks at him, suspicious.

Andrew says, “He’s gone.”

Convincing his coach is not hard when there’s the tell-tale sign of his eyes, hardened, and the tone of his ground-out words is gravel, no room for rejection.

It is with a strangeness inside him that Andrew searches the grounds. Far down lies a duffle bag, too familiar to be a stranger’s. He has seen it so often, obsessively attached to the owner’s hip. A stick sits beside it, and Andrew remembers the owner’s refusal to let his equipment go, his unhealthy attachment to all that held him on the court. The phone stays slotted inside the bag, a finality, like a red rose cherry on top of an ugly cake.

For once, he’s not sure what to do. The truth of it is nauseating. A slow, dark wave rolls through Andrew, a whisk of something cruel and ugly.

Back at the bus, Andrew is wordless. Wymack asks and Kevin says something in response. Andrew can’t hear over the soft roar of the wave.

 

Morning comes with a knock against the bus’ interior. After the emergency room, most sleep sprawled out in a bus seat. Andrew has not slept.

The Foxes gather and their coach says, “He’s alive.”

The criss-cross of his guts unravel, tied knots pulling away from each other, and it takes Andrew a long time to understand that this is relief.

Still, for some reason, the tension stays pressed into Andrew’s shoulders. The bones inside him are cracking, ready to snap. 

“He’s in a hospital in Baltimore.”

Kevin makes a strained sound, both of panic and despair. The look on his face is terrified. And, added plainly to cold fear, is defeat. There is so much knowledge in that expression, that Andrew reaches forward.

This gives him an excuse to break, just the smallest slip of control. 

He says, “Tell me what you know,” as his fingers tighten, and it feels good. It feels good to let whatever feeling this was travel from his chest to his fingertips and onto Kevin’s throat. Kevin can’t actually respond to his demand with the lack of oxygen, but that doesn’t stop Andrew.

It takes them a little too long to pull Andrew off, but he’s satisfied with the result. The truth comes out fast. The dots finally connect.

They do not go to the hospital, but they go to Baltimore.

 

Neil Josten is alive.

Wymack had already said it, but now Andrew confirms it for himself. Neil is alive, in almost all the ways that count.

The wounds blend into the skin, now a part of Neil forever. Each cut and burn laces itself into Neil. No one can see it, but Andrew’s organs are shaking, disruptive and demanding, unsettled and tight.

He thinks he is going to fall under and never come out, but Neil reaches out to him, and the organs soothe and quiet, only for now.

Neil is as talkative as ever, mouthy and unruly. Despite the clear pain, he is breathing strength, and his eyes fall on Andrew, soft. Andrew watches the rise and fall of his chest, the motion of his throat as he swallows, each blink and small movement.

However, Neil is trying very hard. Andrew can see it in the way he shudders, gulps, then restarts a sentence. The way he barely flinches at his own pain. The underlining terror, buried deep, deep, deep.

“Tell me,” Andrew says, and for once wishes there was something besides just German, because this is a question he needs to ask now, but the listening ear of his brother and cousin are an extra weight.

The edges of Neil’s mouth turn down. They tremble. Neil inhales.

On the exhale, he says, “He’s still alive.” He is trying to stay together, but it is a tiring thing. “They couldn’t catch him.”

And Andrew understands now. The twitch of Neil’s hands, every flickered glance to the motel room door, the finger he lifts to barely, barely graze his own fresh wounds.

For the first time, Andrew silently makes a deal with himself.

 

This is what Neil tells the investigators:

Nathan Wesninski’s men took him. They bound him in the car, burned him, cut him up. They took him to the basement of his father’s house, where The Butcher began to work on his son. Neil passed out, and when he woke up, people in the basement were dead. His father was gone.

To Andrew, Neil tells the story a little differently.

“I wasn’t scared in the car. Not truly. Yeah, the lighter hurt. I was screaming and begging, but… I was naive. When I got to my father’s house, it was different. I’ve never felt that petrified. I knew I was going to die. There was absolutely nothing I could do. He started cutting my legs. He - He wanted to make his way to my ankles first. So I couldn’t run anymore. He was so close, Andrew. I don’t…” He breathes out, shaky. “My father got a call. It was important. He went upstairs, and a few minutes later, people came downstairs and shot all my father’s men. My uncle, he was there. He told me I was safe, but I knew somehow my father had slipped out. We don’t know where is he.”

It is a never-ending loop of fear, Andrew thinks. It will never stop.

“He will never touch you again,” Andrew says.

Neil gives Andrew a sad smile, small and pleased yet not the least bit hopeful. 

It’s okay that Neil doesn’t believe it yet. But it’s true.

 

Neil, despite the evident threat of his father, sleeps soundly that night. 

Andrew knows because beside him, in the middle of an unwelcome huddle of nosy foxes, he is not able to sleep. Not entirely. Exhaustion forces his eyes closed, but he is unable to stay unconscious, turning every hour of the night.

Not much changes. Not noticeably. 

Neil says, “Hey,” to him in the bathroom, and the first press of lips taste like a prayer.

The rasp of Neil's voice is still the same, eager and impressed by Andrew's hands.

It's later, pressed into the confines of a cabin, that the changes show themselves. The Foxes enjoy a lazed evening of drinking and games, and Neil shows no sign of falling apart. He presents himself wholly, full and vibrant in the room. He's the same. The only telling memory of his time in a basement are the wounds, stitched and colorful. When Renee and Andrew help Neil with the bandages, Neil does not flinch. 

Andrew wonders if Neil is trying to convince the others or himself.

Night takes them quietly. His lips ache from the desperate press of Neil's mouth. Taking Neil apart on a bed feels different… ominous. Andrew, surprisingly, is able to sleep well.

A life spent cowering beneath bed covers makes Andrew a light sleeper, and when Neil gets up in the middle of the night, Andrew cannot help but wake, too.

It's not curiosity that tells him to follow. Danger follows Neil like a stalker, and Andrew can't help but get up and confirm he's not doing something idiotic.

Neil is on the porch, moving back and forth in an old rocking chair. There’s another one beside it, so Andrew sits down. The spring air was neither hot nor cold, and it wafts past them, fresh and forgiving. Neil’s hands are in his lap. He doesn’t look up at Andrew as he sits, but Andrew watches him instead.

For once, Neil doesn’t try and fill the silence. There’s nothing in his eyes, no fear or rage, just the overwhelming presence of numbness. Andrew recognizes it all too well.

Neil shudders, and his hands come up to his face to cover his eyes. He stays like that for a long time. Neil’s breathing is shallow, but he’s quiet. When his hands eventually fall back to his lap, his expression is left with no emotion. 

Finally, his gaze turns to Andrew. He leans his head against the chair, and it’s as if he’s eating the image of Andrew, studying him and storing away the memory.

Andrew looks back at him, unyielding. 

They go back to bed in silence, but Andrew’s thoughts are relentlessly loud.

 

Months pass with little mishap. Neil is unchanged in the eyes of his teammates, still tough and strong and unwilling to back down. Exy is the perfect distraction, and as their season climaxes, talk of Baltimore seems to sink away.

Only Andrew knows that at night, Neil is less inquisitive, less talkative and more reflective. Their kisses change from hot and heavy to soft and yearning.

They win against the Ravens, and Riko, weak as he had always been, shows his nasty tendencies to the public eye. Andrew had been watching Neil, though, and he was there before the damage could be done.

Riko’s death seems like a tied up bow on the year. 

Neil tells Andrew about it afterwards. The story is interesting enough, but Neil shivers when he says, “Ichirou hasn’t heard from my father. No one has, apparently.” He laughs without humor and adds, “Maybe he’s dead in some ditch,” but neither of them believes it.

Summer break rolls in, hot and slow. The foxes leave one by one. Nicky goes to Germany. Aaron has plans with the cheerleader. Kevin decides to spend his time at Wymack’s, and though he looks jittery, it's clear this is something they both want.

Neil and Andrew agree pretty early on to spend their time in Columbia. Secluded and comfortable, it was a better option than Abby's. Their other option had been a road trip. When it had come up, Neil soon denied the idea with a short explanation: “I've only just stopped running.” Andrew took the answer without question.

The ride to Columbia is spent with the windows down, music at a low roar. When they pull into the highway’s exit, and the car slows just a bit, Neil reaches out to run his fingers through Andrew’s wind-tousled hair. Neil laughs, short and bright, and Andrew thinks he’s never heard anything better.

Neil unlocks the front door with his own key. When they cross the threshold, they’re already kissing. 

Neil has a sloppy grin on his face when he says, “I can spend the whole summer like this,” and Andrew can’t disagree.

Andrew cooks breakfast because he doesn’t trust Neil enough not to burn down the house. He tells Neil this.

Neil scoffs. “I’m a great cook,” he says, but when he tastes the bacon and eggs, he shuts up and lets Andrew cook every upcoming morning. Andrew doesn’t mind the work - the reoccuring kiss on his cheek and ‘thank you for breakfast, Andrew’ is enough reason to do it.

Sometimes, Neil cooks, and Andrew thanks him in the same way.

They don’t leave the house often. There’s one night they go to Eden’s, and the neon lights shining over Neil’s lips is a sight he never gets sick of. They’re comfortable in their reserved booth, heated mouths pressing behind shadows.

It’s only when Neil bumps into a large man on the way to the bar that he wants to leave, face troubled, eyes stuck in a memory.

On the porch, Andrew tells Neil, “He is not here.”

Neil nods but doesn’t look convinced.

Andrew’s promise to himself is coming to a quick end. Neil goes to bed, but Andrew stays up to find a binder with a number in it.

The next day, Neil is visibly fine. After asking for permission, he climbs into Andrew’s lap and kisses every bit of exposed skin on Andrew’s neck. Andrew shivers and eventually pulls him back.

Neil’s eyes fall over Andrew’s face, enamored, then down to his neck. His fingers trail over the path of wet kisses. He grins.

“You look so good.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous if I’m telling the truth.”

“Shut up,” Andrew says, and pulls Neil back down.

They kiss until Andrew can’t feel his lips, until every thought is Neil, Neil, Neil, and the concept is so absurd that he has to retreat.

Later, Neil is fidgeting as they watch a movie. Andrew can only take it for so long before he pauses the movie and turns to Neil. The rise of his brow is a silent question.

Neil sighs. He leans his head back against the couch. His voice holds the heaviest chord of nonchalance. “I’m just wondering when he’s going to find me. I mean, he knows where I am, right? So I’m not sure what’s taking him so long. The only answer I can come up with is that he’s purposely waiting just to make me anxious.”

Andrew watches him carefully. Neil bulls on.

“Technically, my life is the Moriyama’s, but if Ichirou hasn’t even heard of his whereabouts, then I don’t think he’ll care about the politics of it all. I think once he gets to me, he won’t hesitate.”

Andrew is not agitated by the words, but by Neil’s casual tone, the idea that his death is still inevitable, that he believes that dark shadow will take him until its fully satisfied with the results.

Without a word, Andrew stands up. Neil looks up at him, but Andrew doesn’t look back. Instead, he walks to the front door to put on his shoes.

Neil’s voice is strained when he says, “Wait. I didn’t mean to -”

Andrew cuts him off as he grabs the keys. “Let’s go for a drive.”

Relief seems to sag through Neil when he says, “Okay.”

They take the highway, the day bleeding gray. Clouds are heavy and waiting to drip with rain. The car runs smooth over open roads, and Andrew is quiet as he drives, hushing the bit of him that is its own storm.

Neil is silent, too, but every few minutes his eyes fall to Andrew, curious and restless. 

There’s an exit for a park not too far from Columbia. The sun is still somewhere out there, dull orange slipping through, but the day remains dark. Trees curl around the winding road, branches twisting. There’s no other car but theirs. The flat road turns into a rocky lot, so Andrew pulls into it and puts the car in park. Before them, there’s a trail made of overgrown greenery.

Neither of them move to get out. Neil’s head is turned to the window, eyeing the mass of leaves above them.

Andrew breaks the silence.

“Did you or did you not throw away your father’s name?”

Neil turns to gape at him. “Yes, but -”

“Yes. You did. You took on a new name and signed all the right papers. You are Neil Josten. Not Wesninski, not Hatford. So why are you still running?”

There’s a frown stitched into Neil’s mouth, and the furrow of his brows shows how mad he actually is. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. I stopped running in Baltimore. I chose the Foxes. I chose _you_. I’m Neil until the day I die.”

“You may not be running now, but you still know your exits. You think about it, obsess about it, and that’s enough.”

“Well, fuck, Andrew. It’s not like I’m not… scared. Because I am. I can’t help it. Is it that disappointing? To know I’m weak?”

Little drops of rain land on the windshield, sticking before they spill down.

“Fear is not weakness. It’s your inability to live that’s weak.” Neil opens his mouth, but Andrew keeps going. “You thought you were going to die in Baltimore, and you didn’t. You thought the Moriyamas would kill you, and they didn’t. You’ve got the second chance you’ve always wanted, but you’re wasting it away. Is it living if you’re living like this?”

“My father -”

“Fuck your father,” Andrew snarls, and it takes every bit of his energy to swallow that consuming anger once more. His left hand wraps around the wheel, squeezing until his knuckles are white. There’s a touch at his right hand where its resting against his leg. Neil intertwines their fingers, and Andrew lets him. The anger pours out of him, just as fast as it came.

“I just -” Neil tries to say, but the words fall and crumble as they come out. His free hand touches the burns on his cheeks, then reaches down over his chest, where they both know the abundance of scars litters every part of his skin. “I’ve been scared of him my whole life. I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to stop being scared. You just have to stop letting your fear control you.”

The rain outside is pouring now. Water thumps heavily against the roof of the car, rapidly pouring down over the windows.

Andrew’s gaze is unblinking, challenging, and Neil looks back head-on. 

Eventually, Neil nods, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s an admittandance of sorts. They both know this is not something one can just change - trauma is a sentient being, unforgiving. There’s no single answer. But Neil is agreeing to try, and that’s better than nothing.

For awhile, the only sound is the downpour above them. 

Then, Neil says, “Can I kiss you?”

And Andrew says, “Yes. Yeah.”

Neil’s hand comes up to Andrew’s cheek, and their mouths brush, and Andrew is gripping Neil’s arm as hard as he can. It’s shorter than Andrew expects, because Neil pulls away and puts his head into Andrew’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s muffled by Andrew’s clothes, but Andrew hears it.

 

It doesn’t change right away, and it doesn’t have to. 

When Neil wakes in the middle of the night, shaking so hard the whole bed moves, Andrew’s hands trail down his arms, soothing until Neil is still. When Neil has an off day, only capable of sitting on the couch and staring at the wall, Andrew hands him a cup of hot coffee and sits beside him, silent but there. When Neil has that lost look in his eyes and says he’s going on a run, Andrew waves him off, trusting, and Neil always comes back.

But Neil is different, too. His eyes have stopped tracking exits. The length of his smile has extended, wider grins and bigger laughs. 

One day, Neil tells Andrew, “You make me feel alive,” and Andrew caves in on himself, shuddering.

Summer weeks pass in Columbia. 

The day comes in late July. Someone returns a call that Andrew had made months ago.

“We have him,” Hatford says, his voice rough on the line. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, kid.” The man gives an address, then hangs up. 

Neil rounds the corner, mouth open to say something. He stops short, looking at Andrew, perplexed. Andrew wonders what kind of face he’s making.

“What’s wrong?” Neil asks.

“I’ve got something to show you.”

They get in the car - Neil, confused, and Andrew, focused. 

The trip doesn’t take too long. Andrew assumes Hatford purposefully came south, trying to get closer to Columbia without being suspicious. It only takes three hours on the highway, then thirty more minutes in some random town, the roads quiet and overdrawn with lanky trees.

“I’m hungry,” Neil grumbles, but Andrew just knows he’s restless. His endless bombard of questions had stopped an hour into the ride, knowing Andrew wouldn’t answer. He talks aimlessly most of the drive, but Andrew is too wired to respond. Neil seems to understand, and he speaks for both of them.

On a long road with scarce streetlights, there is a large warehouse.

The building isn’t tall, but it pours over a large piece of land. Plain and rusted, the building sits idly and inconspicuous. Individual storage units are marked by garage doors with numbers. The parking lot goes around both sides of the building. Andrew pulls in and goes left.

Neil is sitting up, alert. “Andrew,” he says, a question and a demand.

“You’re safe,” Andrew assures him. “More than you’ve ever been.”

They round the building in all its length, eyeing the numbers on the units as they go higher and higher. The building curves, and Andrew takes the car around the back.

There’s a small, black vehicle sitting by a storage unit. The wind is pulling and pushing the trees above them. Not a single star is in sight.

Andrew parks beside the vehicle, in front of storage unit eighty-eight. 

He looks at Neil. “Take a deep breath.”

Neil inhales, long and plentiful. He looks at Andrew with trust - unmoving, relentless trust, and Andrew hates him for it.

“Okay,” Andrew says. “Let’s go.”

They get out and are greeted by a man, tall and large in structure. He holds himself high, but not with the same childlike egotism that had killed Riko. He seems eased, but there is a tension in his shoulders. Eyes fall on Neil, almost caring, though mostly dubious.

“Hello, Uncle Stuart,” Neil says, and there is something about his tone that is unsurprised. There is a finality to it. “I’m guessing this isn’t just a friendly visit with a relative?”

Stuart looks at Andrew, a little pinch of his eyebrows, like he was shocked Andrew hadn’t told him what was happening.

“You look healthy, Nathaniel. I’m glad.” He takes a gun out from his waistband and Neil shudders, backing up a step. Stuart pauses before handing the gun to Andrew. “You’ve got ten minutes. Make them count.”

Neil looks between the two. The weight of the gun is unfamiliar and boring in Andrew’s hand. He’d always preferred knives. Almost immediately, he takes Neil’s hand and places the pistol into it, closing his fingers around the the cool metal. He takes Neil’s other hand, gives it a sharp squeeze, and then holds it. 

He starts to lead Neil to the storage unit, when Neil whispers, “What are we doing?”

“I’m finishing a deal I made.”

There’s confusion written all over Neil’s face. “But we don’t have a deal anymore.”

“I made one with myself.”

Stuart walks over and lifts the garage door. The dim light inside is a stark contrast to the darkness outside. There is a man sitting on a metal chair, tied at the hands, knees, and chest. He’s stocky, but radiating with power. Andrew is unconcerned. There is a bag over the man’s head.

Andrew and Neil step inside. Neil’s face is blank. Stuart closes the door behind them, a loud clanking noise rushing by in the silence, and Neil’s body trembles with it.

Everything is quiet for a long, terrible moment, but the bit of joy in Andrew’s veins pushes him to walk. He reluctantly lets go of Neil and moves forward. The man before him does not move besides the telling rise and fall of his chest. Andrew grabs the bag and yanks it off his head, tossing it to the side. The man before him looks up at him, and then a hideous, slimy grin stretches across his mouth, revealing teeth meant to bite.

Nathan Wesninski’s gaze falls from Andrew to Neil. Once it lands on his son, the grin grows even wider, and the man laughs, jolly.

Neil makes a sound, too close to a whimper.

Andrew’s arm snaps back and knocks into the man’s face. Nathan’s head whips back from the full, merciless force. It almost looks like his neck breaks, and the idea is suddenly very tempting. Blood pours from his nose immediately. Nathan seems unfazed, so Andrew hits him once more in the head, right near his temple. This time, Nathan’s grin falters, though he doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Nathaniel,” says the man. “Come here.”

This is the worst of it, Andrew knows. The terror before the relief. Andrew turns to Neil, who is staring, unmoving. 

“Neil,” Andrew says, and Neil’s gaze travels to Andrew’s. It’s his new name, the one he wanted and deserved and would have from now until the end.

Andrew continues, “You have a choice. If you don’t want to, I will do it.”

The man in the chair laughs and laughs and laughs, and Andrew has to stop himself from giving into the violence. This visit is not to satisfy his own needs. This is for Neil.

“You think Nathaniel can do it?” Nathan asks. His voice is slurred from the blood in his mouth. “The boy only knows how to run. He’s never done anything for himself.” Blood dribbles down his chin, but Nathan looks like he’s having the most fun he’s had in years.

Neil steps forward. The hand that holds the gun is shaking, but his grip is aggressively tight.

“Nathaniel,” Nathan whispers. It’s like he’s soothing a small child. “My son.” And then, with no warning, his face turns into a sneer, and his voice is cutting. “I wish I had slit your heels when I had the chance, so I could watch you crawl. I wish I’d taken your arms and legs, so you’d be nothing but an empty shell, just like on the inside. I would’ve carved your eyes from their sockets and left you down there, so you were unseeing, incapable of movement, begging for death and never getting it. I wish I’d seen you sniveling.”

Andrew feels blood in his hand where his fist squeezes, nails biting into his own palms.

The man runs his tongue over his teeth, and it’s clear that the idea makes him hungry, a predator ‘til his last breath. He nods his head toward Andrew. “Now that I know your attachment to this one, I should’ve taken him instead. Sent you photos of his sawed body and slit throat.” He’s smiling so wide, so happy. “There’s so much I could’ve done. I would’ve torn you apart piece by piece until you were nothing. You’re nothing, Nathaniel,” he spits. “Always remember that.”

Neil lifts the gun. The barrel points directly at his father’s face, and his arm is steady. His eyes are narrowed, determined.

But - there are tears falling down his cheeks, dripping one by one. 

“Years of torture,” Nathan goes on, “And you still shed tears in the eye of your father’s death. Has nothing changed, after all these years? Are you that pathetic, Nathaniel?”

The name is like a bell chiming once, twice, three times.

Neil says, “These are tears of relief,” and pulls the trigger.

 

Afterwards, the night passes by in heavy chunks.

When the shot resonates, and the walls and floor lie thick with red, and Stuart opens the garage door, Neil is pushing past his uncle, only able to make it to the center of the tiny little back road. He bends over to vomit, retching violently. His body shakes, so Andrew tries to ease the gun from his firm grasp. But Neil doesn’t let go, only holds on tighter, gripping the pistol like it was a lifeline. Eventually, Andrew gets it from his hand and passes it back to Stuart.

Stuart explains to them that it will be ruled a suicide, that the man’s death is a deal with the FBI, though not the Moriyama's, so if anyone asks it is best they play innocent. Stuart tells them, “We’ve got it from here,” and that’s it. Andrew and Neil get back into the car.

The road is dark and endless, the highway engulfing them. Stars seem to shiver and shake above.

Halfway back, still in the middle of the dead highway, Neil reaches for the door handle. Andrew’s hand shoots out to take his forearm, stopping him.

“Andrew - Andrew, stop the car.”

The car pulls into the highway shoulder, the forest pitch black beside them. Neil stumbles out and falls to his knees into the grass, though he doesn’t throw up again. Andrew calmly unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out, though his chest feels weighed down. He rounds the car and sits beside Neil, whose fingers are fiercely gripping the grass.

“I thought he was invincible,” Neil mumbles.

Andrew says, “He wasn’t.”

Using the past tense seems to jolt through Neil, and he shudders. “I killed him.”

“You did.” Andrew runs his hand through Neil’s curls, trying to ground him, to remind him where they were and who he was. “How does it feel?”

Neil looks up, and despite his hands tugging at the ground or the clear onslaught of panic, his gaze is clear.

“I’ve never felt so free.”

The words seem to break something in Neil. Realization rushes into him. He grips the side of Andrew’s neck. 

“Andrew,” he says, disbelief scratching at his voice. “I’m free.”

Andrew pulls Neil into his shoulder, and Neil collapses into him, wrapping his arms firmly around Andrew. It is quiet acceptance and trembling excitement; a break in something huge, a change that has come later than expected, but still in time. It is everything.

“Thank you,” Neil whispers, voice low but strong, and Andrew knows Neil will never run again. The thought is a release. “Thank you, Andrew.”

And that’s how it always is - Neil thanking Andrew. But Andrew shakes his head as they embrace, unable to explain how it’s him who should be thanking Neil instead.

 

When they wake up in the morning, a sliver of yellow crawling across the wall, Neil blinks up at Andrew and smiles, bigger than he ever has before.

**Author's Note:**

> contact me @[anddreil](http://anddreil.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!! thanks so much for reading!


End file.
